Capitol Secrets
by Ms.MM
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a thirteen-year-old boy living in District 3 with his mother and older brother. I got this idea, and I don't know if I should continue or not. Let me know. I imagine that there'll be some violence, but I haven't written it yet.
1. Chapter 1

"Come on, boys. You know we've got to get there at 2:00 sharp." Violet Holmes patted Sherlock's back and looked at Mycroft meaningfully. Mycroft had, of course, been ready to leave for a while.

Sherlock's small, sharp-boned face looked even more pale than usual against the dark leather of his hand-me-down jacket. He bunched his hands in the pockets and ignored his older brother's disgustingly worried expression. _Mother's upset, of course. Why should Mycroft be upset? The odds are low and I didn't sign up for tessara because our food supply is perfectly steady, and Mother has a steady job. _

Mycroft held the door for Sherlock and their mother. Sherlock turned up his collar against the wind. He spotted a girl he knew from school hurrying along with her sister, their parents close behind. Mycroft gave him a small shove forward, making the thirteen-year-old boy stumble a bit on his way into the street. "Mycroft, honestly," Mother said.

"Sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't respond, he just wanted to get everything over with so he could go back to his experiments simmering in his room. 

Sherlock was standing rigidly in the group of twelve-to-thirteen year olds, arms crossed across his chest as the speakers boomed, greeting the children and spectators of the District 3 reaping. As usual, the bizarre man with purple hair was being far too happy about being in charge of District 3 during the reapings. Finally finishing his feet-numbingly long speech, he waltzed over to the ball that contained the girl's names.

As the ball spun, Sherlock could just see the various names of girls he knew from school, reputation or his mother's friends. He would've tried to guess, but it was pure chance. Of course, the LeMarre family had been on tense terms with the Capitol people as of late...

The man caught ahold of a slip of paper. Sherlock could practically hear the intake of breath from the people around him as he brought it up to his eyes and read aloud, "Genette LeMarre!" Sherlock sighed through his nose. Of course.

Genette emerged from the crowd and walked up the platform, taking small steps as a tear rolled down her cheek. Sherlock could see her father's face crumpling at the edge of the crowd. He could barely hold back an eye roll. It was strange, how much the families of the people who'd been reaped cared about them. Sherlock had never been upset when Mycroft's name was entered in the ball for six years straight. The only real concern was that without his older brother, life would be a bit harder.

_I guess it is a little scary. My odds of being drawn are low. But so are everybody elses'. Ah, speak of the devil. I wonder where Mother picked up that saying, sounds old. _

The purple-haired man had caught hold of a name. And he was just now reading it. Sherlock's stomach suddenly contracted. He was never able to figure out why, but he always remembered that he knew for certain what the man was going to say.

"Sherlock Holmes!" 

Sherlock swallowed and pushed his way to the front of the group of twelves and thirteens. The audience was sort of mumbling to itself. It struck him that they thought it was unfair that a thirteen-year-old was chosen, which was ridiculous, of course. The whole cursed business was unfair. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft and his mother. Mycroft was stone-faced and his mother was quietly weeping into his older brother's shoulder. Despite his usual thoughts, Sherlock felt a pang in his chest.

He loved his mother, as much as he could. He didn't want his death to hurt her.

Sherlock made it to the podium and shook hands with Genette, who had tears visibly rolling down her cheeks now. Sherlock allowed the expression of disdain to show on his face. The cameras would love it. 

"Well, Sherlock, what has impressed you about the Capitol so far?" Caesar Flickerman asked.

"The amount of secrets it holds." Sherlock tilted his head as the audience tittered. He wasn't aware he'd said anything funny. His mentor, a man in his 30s named Beetee, had warned him about this. Beetee had said that what he said in this 3-minute interview would help him in the Games. As the male tribute from District 3, he'd only had to sit through the idiotic Careers and Genette's disaster of an interview before being allowed to come on stage. Only one person before him had stood out. It was a fifteen-year-old boy from District 2, who was remarkably short and quiet for a Career.

Caesar laughed. "Secrets, eh? What made you notice the secrets?"

Sherlock snorted. "I always notice the secrets."

"Really? How do you mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt his mouth creep up into a smile. "Why don't I show you?" At a nod from Caesar, Sherlock sat back in his chair, steepling his hands underneath his chin, staring intently at a woman in the front row of the audience. She blushed slightly under his gaze. "Come up onto the stage." The woman hesitantly rose and climbed the stairs, standing awkwardly next to Sherlock's chair. "Tell me, ma'am, how is your ascension on the political ladder going?"

The woman blushed and stammered out, "F-fine, thank you for asking."

"Would you like me to continue?"

"Why not?"

"You have two children, neither of which are particularly fond of you but are no doubt receiving a lot of pleasure from seeing you on TV. Your husband, a morphling addict-" the woman gasped, "-oh, was that a secret? It was exceedingly obvious from the spots on your cuffs that clearly come from a splash of vomit, which normally would be from drinking, but you don't smell of alcohol in the slightest, so morphling it is. If it were one of your children you wouldn't have come to the interviews today, seeing as you feel considerably more sentiment for them than they do for you. If it was a one time experience, again, you'd be home as opposed to showing up for a live and required viewing experience." Sherlock stopped, noticing the expressions of Caesar and the woman's.

The woman slunk back to her seat as the audience murmured. Sherlock turned to Caesar. "Not good?"

Caesar laughed. "That was amazing!" Sherlock blinked. _That's unusual. "_So, we've only got about a minute left. How d'you think you're going to do in the Games, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "Do you really want to know, Caesar? I think I'm going to die. But I do know one thing. I don't particularly _feel_ like dying. And the other tributes are idiots."

"Including your district partner?" Caesar said, raising a magenta eyebrow.

"Including her. Don't be offended, everybody is."

"Sherlock, a lot of tributes wouldn't try to antagonize themselves so early in the Games."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "I am not 'a lot of tributes,' Caesar. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to propel myself into surviving as long as possible." He smiled. "You know, this is beginning to sound rather fun. Because if I get outwitted by anybody, that would be losing. And I don't lose."

"What happens if you do lose?"

"Well, that would defeat the entire purpose of my existence, wouldn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and hefted the axe, aware of the Career pack's eyes on his back. He decided that the benefit of the axe's edge and weight would ultimately be driven out by his lack of knowledge of how to use it, which was infuriating. He let the axe thunk to the floor, ignoring the titters of the Careers.

He pretended to notice them out of the corner of his eye, and quickly scanned them. The one he'd taken an interest in before, John, was standing apart from the others, pursing his lips and looking off into the distance as he fiddled with a club. Another boy, from District 7, was eagerly talking at the male tribute from 1. The 7 boy was small, shorter than Sherlock but still taller than the tribute from 2. He had slicked-back, dark hair, and was clearly trying to wheedle his way into 1's good books.

Amazingly, it seemed to be working. The boy from 1 was looking at 7 with a whole new brand of respect. _What did he do?_

Sherlock left the axes and moved on to daggers, waving off the instructor. He realized that he could, surprisingly enough, remember dark-haired 7's interview.

* * *

><p><em>I was sitting in the room they've provided, watching the screen as he comes on stage. Caesar greets him and the boy smiles. <em>

"James Moriarty, that's a rather old-fashioned name."

"Isn't it. Mother was feeling creative when I was born, so now I go by our surname to annoy her."

_Caesar laughs, as does the audience. _

"So what would you say is one of your strengths?"

"I don't tend to leave much of an impression on people, unless I want to. Then they never, ever forget my face."

"Well, that's interesting, Ja-Moriarty. It seems like leaving an impression here would certainly be a good idea!"

_Moriarty's eyes darken and the smile drops from his face._

"Oh, I don't think the darling viewers out there _want _me to leave an impression on them, not the one that people remember for the rest of their miserable lives."

_His expression has been stripped to one of pure disdain, for Caesar, for the Capitol, possibly for this life in general. Caesar has clearly become uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going._

"Well, Moriarty, we all saw your reaction to being drawn at the reaping. Would you care to explain that to all our friends?"

_His lips twitch, he was obviously waiting for that question._

"You want me to explain why I smiled, being from such a _humble _place as District 7. Caesar, don't you ever get bored? Of this?"

_He waves his hand, indicating the whole theater, and possibly the city itself._

"Of all these people, running around with their fashions and affairs and ridiculous theatrics."

_He giggles, sliding a finger down the side of his chair._

"I don't care what your answer is, I was leading into my own. The reason I smiled when I was drawn was because it was something...unexpected. It was a distraction. I'm always looking for distractions. Maybe, just maybe, there's another distraction in this distraction. Maybe the other tributes can help me be less bored."

_Moriarty settles back into his chair. The audience and Caesar are, for once, completely silent. Caesar is studying the boy, when he finally makes the connection._

"Did you happen to watch Sherlock Holmes' interview, Moriarty?"

_He leans forward in his seat, looking directly at the camera. At me._

"Just getting that now, are you?"

_The buzzer sounds._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock realized he'd completely zoned out, catching a few odd looks from the other tributes. He examined the array of knives that were available for training. Some were serrated, others were downright dull. He lifted one of the less sharp ones and pressed it against his arm. It barely nicked him; the blade obviously had been overlooked for sharpening. Blood welled up. Sherlock swiped at it, spreading a light red film across his skin.

He looked up and saw that 7 boy, Moriarty staring intently at the blood. His extraordinarily dark eyes flicked up to Sherlock's pale ones. Seven licked his lips. Sherlock curled his. Moriarty's concentration was broken by the boy from 1 tapping him on the shoulder.

His eyes lingered on Sherlock for a moment before he imperiously turned to the bigger boy. Sherlock was dumbfounded to see that One was acting subservient to Moriarty. The shorter boy was speaking to One and laying a hand on his arm, which One actually flinched away from. Seven's lips curved into a small smile.

Sherlock knew he wouldn't survive the Games. But maybe this boy could help him alleviate the tedium of dying. He had a feeling that was exactly what Moriarty wanted.

However, while he was alive, Sherlock didn't intend to die of natural causes, so he started to go around the more modest training stations. By the end of the tributes' time in training, he had a solid idea of what the arena was going to be. He wasn't the only one. He'd spotted Moriarty looking at the stations too, quietly observing what the instructors had to teach.

The stations were urban-based. Instead of ropes, there were large stone blocks to climb. Instead of sticks and twigs, there was cloth and broken glass at the fire-starting station. Obviously there'd be a Cornucopia, but it probably wouldn't be stocked as well in other Games, judging by the instructors' insistence on improvising weapons. Sherlock wasn't sure if the pressing way they asked him to tumble and use his body as a weapon was because they'd taken bets on him, or if they were actually invested in these children.

As he thought about that, the fact that anyone in this room could've already taken bets on his life, a spark of fury kindled in his belly. _They want me to win. After my being clever and showing off how perfectly wonderful I am at seeing through their stupid lives, now I'm endearing. Me and Moriarty, bet they've chalked us up for allies or enemies or both already. That's what they want, they want me to dance. They want _us_ to dance, the boys from Three and Seven. And when we die, it'll be in some way that they've all seen coming from a mile away. Maybe it'll be from someone who's bigger than us, maybe we'll starve, maybe we'll kill each other. _

A plan started to form.

_Well, they're going to be disappointed. I don't like Moriarty. He's unhinged and doesn't know or care when he's gone too far. I'll find somebody else to stay with in the arena. And then...s'pose I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Those sayings are ridiculous, Mother does love them so..._

* * *

><p><em>This isn't working.<em>

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. Hardly any of the other tributes were interesting at all. The Careers were brutish and stupid, as usual. The ones from the outer districts were mousy and scared, except for Moriarty. There were only two tributes besides Seven that stood out, and Sherlock wasn't too keen on either of them at the moment.

Emlee Gargitch, district 6, transportation. A girl who had been open and chattery during her interview but closed off and focused during training. She'd been doing the same as Moriarty and Sherlock, but with considerably less success. She could see the puzzle pieces, but not how they fit together. Perhaps she could be his replacement Moriarty, so to speak. Sherlock was determined to avoid that boy at all costs. Gargitch was strong, too. She had the forearms of a blacksmith and a height of just under six feet. She was just a bit too...different. Her mind wasn't predictable; it jumped to the least obvious solutions when it didn't need to.

Unpredictable. That was the perfect word for that girl. She was too unpredictable, which Sherlock wasn't used to, which in turn made it harder for him to read her. Not impossible, but hard. And therein lay the reason she wouldn't work: Moriarty _would _be able to easily read her. He probably liked the impulsiveness, the wild cards, the odd ones out. If he couldn't have Sherlock, he'd go for the next best thing, which was someone who could _occasionally _fulfill his boredom.

And if he could read Emlee Gargitch, he could control her as well. No. No, she wouldn't do at all.

Another problem came into his head. The other tributes, Careers especially, would've already pegged Sherlock and Moriarty as either easy marks or (if they were slightly less stupid than cattle) too clever to live. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he wasn't the most formidable of tributes. He was tall but slight, and wasn't muscled well. He had enough fighting experience because Mycroft was paranoid they'd be drawn at the games, but nothing advanced. Mostly he'd just had to hold his own in a fight against Mycroft. To be fair, Mycroft got more and more inventive with the fights as Sherlock got older, using things like electricity and tricks he'd picked up working with Captiol technology. Sherlock had come home with cuts, burns, bruises and other assorted injuries that Mother patched up without question. _I never asked her why she didn't ask where the wounds were coming from. Did Mycroft tell her we were training? Did she not mind as long as they weren't serious?_

Sherlock slumped down in his chair, ignoring the looks from Beetee and Genette. He'd excluded Genette from the options of temporary allies long ago. She was too fragile, too small, too sensitive, too likely to die within the first ten minutes of the Games. He needed somebody who had a high chance of surviving the initial bloodbath, and someone who wouldn't abandon him too soon. _What about that boy John?_

That sandy-haired, stocky, fifteen-year-old boy from Two. Sherlock was able to remember his interview. He'd been quiet, but brave, and had talked about his younger sister, Harryett. Course, bravery wasn't exactly necessary or even good in the arena. _Obviously a fighter, being from Two, and likely used to being mocked for his height. So defensive, then. Loyal as well, but not easily. _That could be a barrier, but Sherlock was good at getting people to like him if he needed to.

Two was looking like a better option all the time.

Sherlock sat forward and steepled his fingers. He couldn't remember when he'd started to do it, but it was such a familiar habit now that he couldn't think clearly without it.

_I'm going to die. I want to do it in the most explosive way possible. The Capitol deserves to be burnt. Perhaps, with the right coercing, I can convince this John to do it as well._


End file.
